I got what I wished for. Since leaving San Clemente and starting this trek, circumnavigating the historical range of the southern steelhead on foot, I had done nothing but walk on exposed concrete and asphalt for 21 days and over 300 miles.
I made it to the northernmost river in the range, the Santa Maria, and followed that inland to where I resupplied in the town’s namesake with the new chapter of the trip about to take place, the trek into the mountains where these steelhead rivers start their lives.
The pack was heavy, the heat was incessant, and the climb was arduous, but I finally found myself on a dirt road in the Los Padres National Forest, and the dread of what I was about to get myself into took over. If anyone had followed my journey throughout this trip, you would have noticed that I had already taken to the mountains last spring. But what I ended up doing was hitchhike along this nearly 200-mile section because I was tied to a timeline that forced me to skip ahead to the Pacific Crest Trail and hike to Big Bear. Though it was amazing to hike and see the drainages of the Santa Clara, San Gabriel, and Santa Ana Rivers, skipping this wild section of the trip bothered me.
It bothered me so much that I had no choice but to return. But I wanted to return with ample time to explore and give it the chance to present itself. Give it the justice it deserves, and more importantly, let it speak the words it must and honor the demands it presented. From Santa Maria to roughly Acton, there is a wild, remote, and arguably untouched wilderness area in all of Southern California, and the historical range of this fish. An impenetrable wilderness of over half a million acres and a mix of high desert chaparral as well as alpine pines.
I left Santa Maria last spring and began my trek into this wilderness on a dirt road so overgrown with grasses and bushes that they tickled the waistband of my backpack as I walked. Trails were nonexistent, and what remained of them were dilapidated trailhead signs that, too, had been engulfed in overgrown reeds and greenery. It all reminded me of a scene from Jurassic Park where the jungle had taken over the compound. And although the terrain forced me to abandon the section, I was excited to return and come back, with a machete if necessary, and hack through the wilderness in search of this untouched beauty. In search of this solitude, and of course, in search of its fish.
I was dropped off exactly where I exited the wilderness and began my trek along the spine of the range with sweeping views down to one of its steelhead rivers, the Sisquoc. Sisquoc means quail in the native Chumash language, and as I laid my eyes on the slithering river, one of our state birds shot out from a bush and startled me. Perhaps I was so focused on the gorgeousness of the river that I hadn’t thought about any wildlife of the area, but the moment the quail darted out and flew away, I had a wild sense of feeling that I was going to be alone to traverse this range.
Overgrowth was an understatement, and much of the trek across this wilderness area was that of route finding, stepping through thigh-deep grasses, bushwhacking through spine-riddled and tick-covered small trees and greenery, and walking along rocky creek banks.
The terrain wasn’t the only thing to hamper the progress. Each blade of grass, bush, or tree had either spiders, ticks, or a snake hiding underneath it. The weather would go from spitting snow on the peaks and ridgetops to incessant heat, prompting a dip in the water. Itching and scratching had always painted my mind with constant worry about poison oak, sumac, or perhaps other poisonous or venomous things. But the one constant this area had in spades was solitude.
I would often break, leaning against a rock, a sand bank, or even a pine tree, and hear nothing but the wind, the call of a red-tailed hawk, or the tumble of water rolling over the rocks, boulders, or downed trees. I went eight days without seeing a human and thought that would really put a strain on my focus, my mental health, and my sanity. But ultimately, it fed my soul and desire to keep going.
I learned I was never alone. The red-tailed hawk would always fly above and look over me, even as a condor presented itself with a sideways glance, the white underside of its wings confidentially confirming its identity. The paw prints of a black bear guided me through one creek drainage after the next, notifying me that it was the path of least resistance, and even the rattlesnakes cheered me on while I daintily stepped out of their strike range. But the real drive, the real fuel for this engine, powering me through this rough, rugged, and untouched wilderness, was the fish.
Each creek, each river, and each drainage, no matter how rough, how cold, how hard to get to, had a healthy population of salmonids. Trout would either sit in the deep, slow-moving pools while gently swaying with the subtle current, or dart in and out of cover among the boulders in the creeks. Some were in the open in perfect view in the springtime light, while others had me searching for them with a GoPro on a stick. Some were no larger than my index finger, while others were well over 20 inches long, with one reaching nearly two feet. It’s hard to say if any were recently anadromous, but they all, at least historically and genetically, are.
I would admire them while I took a break along a creek, eating my dinner next to camp, or sometimes even over morning coffee, watching them come up and out from the structure as the sun rose in the sky. The sun was the alarm clock for the trip each day, not just for me but for a litany of creatures, including the fish. And the full moon was the night’s light switch, reminding me of time while keeping me comfortable in the depths of the wilderness.
In 14 days, I made it 172 miles across three wilderness areas and successfully traversed the southern district of the Los Padres National Forest. I made my way into the town of Santa Clarita and walked along the streets, admiring the most horrifying thing of my youth, Six Flags Theme Park. I used to sit on the benches of that place while my friend rode the roller coasters out of sheer fear. I was and always will be far more comfortable in the wilderness. But I followed the dried-up riverbed of the Santa Clara to Acton, where I met up with the Pacific Crest Trail, connecting the line that I had skipped over last spring.
Now, the remaining part of the trip from Big Bear to the U.S.-Mexican border, along the Tijuana River, is all up to the forest closures from the 2024 fires, and I hope and pray that this coming summer and fall will be ones of safe suppression and responsible outdoor recreation. Because all I need is a window to successfully circumnavigate this range and finish this trip, but it’s all up to the climate now, seeing if she will not just grant me access to these areas, but of course, to allow fish as well.
